


I'm not like an ordinary world

by RedWritingHood



Series: Undertown (stories specifically for Matt bc I love him) [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Humor, Supernatural Elements, inspired by Denny's and something else that i can't remember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedWritingHood/pseuds/RedWritingHood
Summary: The road will always lead, first and foremost, to a diner.
Relationships: Unnamed Character & The Road
Series: Undertown (stories specifically for Matt bc I love him) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194929
Kudos: 9





	I'm not like an ordinary world

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from taken from Charles Buckowski
> 
> _“Understand me. I’m not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, I live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul.”_

When you leave the wilds of Undertown--if you can, that is--there, on the outskirts, is a road. Just outside the dark corners and neon lights of the city (which is not a town) you will see it take form, the earth rearranging itself to accomodate this spontaneous path to places unknown.  
  
Well, unknown to you, anyway. You're out of luck if you go looking for it. Travelers and locals will stand on the sidelines, watching you scrabble in the dirt like a panicked grub.  
  
You tossed your dignity out the window and didn't even bother to watch it roll down into the gutter, where it made itself a home and henceforth ignored all your desperate pleas for reconciliation. What were you thinking, throwing away your pride like it was trash? You'll never get it back again. And you'll never find the road now that you long for it.  
  
It's not a particularly pretty road. It's fairly normal, in fact. There are rocks and flowers and patches of grass and, occasionally, something calling to you from the woods with a voice that you recognize but have never heard before.  
  
Every forest has one. You can say hello, if you want. It's the polite thing to do. Just keep your eyes on the road, or else you'll lose your way. You might end up in a cave or an active volcano or, worst of all, a public restroom.  
  
On the other hand, if you watch the flowers, little messages will appear for you.  
  
Things like _"Your hair looks nice this morning"_ , _"Don't have the tuna salad"_ , _"It will rain for five hours on your birthday"_ , _"Your flesh will fertilize the earth you once swore you would never walk upon"_ , _"Take a jacket, it's windy outside"_.  
  
The road doesn't adhere to the laws of linear timelines. It does not, in fact, adhere to any laws, up to and including physics, gravity, and gun control. This is why you should only ever let your guard down when you are certain you have regained control of your errant laws, when you no longer feel as if your soul is searching for an exit and your body is only along for the ride.  
  
Now, you might be thinking, _"But where does the road lead?"_ or perhaps _"Where is this narration coming from? Who are you? Why are you talking to me?"_ which are both dangerous questions, but in wildly different ways.  
  
Just be thankful you're not near the woods and move on.  
  
Firstly, let me make this clear: the road is not leading you to a singular destination. Instead, you will find yourself led to one place, which will then lead you to another place, which will then lead you back home.  
  
These are all places that you need to be.  
  
However, the road will always lead, first and foremost, to a diner.  
  


* * *

  
  
It sits in the center of a desert which has no name. The sign is unreadable only in that the language has long since died out and, quite possibly, never even existed on this dimensional plane at all.  
  
The sky is dark and the stars are closer than you have ever seen them. There are small pinpoints of light that refract like sunshine through a diamond every time you turn your head. The moon is gone. So is the road.  
  
You have no choice but to approach the entrance. You could try your luck in the desert, but let's be honest here. There are things out there that you haven't encountered before and you're not looking to break that particular record just yet.  
  
The lights are on. The windows are cleaner than your grandmother's prized pistols that she uses to hunt for breakfast every morning. When you open the door, the sound of a tiny bell rings out, clearer than you've ever heard.  
  
You look back. There is no bell. There is no longer a door.  
  
You're slightly annoyed, because what the hell kind of scam are these people trying to pull here? Do they think you're going to empty your pockets over the counter just because you have nothing to do but buy your weight in pancakes? Please. You haven't fallen for that trick since you were six, which is the prime age for con artists to try their hand, or paw, or tentacle, or empty dangling sleeve.  
  
You take a seat in the booth closest to the wall that once included a door. You are the only customer, and judging by the welcome you received, you're really not all that surprised.  
  
You wait for a server. Both the kitchen and the counter are empty of employees. You are not impressed.  
  
The darkness under the table takes a form and crawls out from the space where your legs stretch out and disappear into an infinite starless void.  
  
The entity has no face, only the blackness of the abyss. You order a coffee and let it know just how deplorable the service has been so far.  
  
It slinks off without answering any of your complaints. You tap your fingers impatiently on the table. You think it might be sculpted from the bone of some unidentifiable creature, but then again, the diner is probably too cheap for that. Only the best carpenters carve from bone, and what they charge is usually enough to keep you in debt for at least seven lifetimes.  
  
You stop tapping. The entity returns, placing a mug in front of you. It's red, painted with little blue snowflakes and chipped on the handle. Your coffee attempts to punch you in the face.  
  
You think: _Hot damn, that's strong._  
  
You drink it down before it can escape the cup. Maybe this place isn't as bad as you thought.  
  
The check arrives. You owe the diner half a pint of blood and your left sock.  
  
You have never hated a place more than you do right now. The blood is risky enough, but one of your own personal socks? You'd think this was a circus, with the way these guys were clowning around.  
  
The door is back on the wall again. You look at it, then back at the check. You slowly slide out of the booth. You reach into your pocket. You pull out a single gilded coin. You place it delicately on the tabletop. You abruptly beat feet and make your escape out the door.  
  
You hear the table being wrenched from the floor as a surge of darkness and barely-formed obsidian bodies erupt from the space underneath. Abnormally long and disjointed fingers reach for your fleeing figure, and a sound like a starving black hole fills the diner and the space between your ears. Your hand closes around the door handle just in time to throw yourself out into the cool air of the night.  
  
The all-consuming darkness hits the door, rattling the windows, causing small quakes in the sand beneath your feet. You watch the shifting, shapeless void searching, searching for a way out into the unsuspecting world. You make a rude gesture with your hand.  
  
The sand melts into rock and weeds. It's the road.  
  
"Thanks for nothing," you say.  
  
Flowers emerge from the ground and bloom into words. _Your fly is open_ , they say.  
  
You look down. It is open. There's a folded piece of paper stuck between the zipper and your bare skin that was decidedly not there before. Your mood sours even further when you realize the letter has the same print as your missing underwear. You slide it from your pants and unfold it without closing your fly, just to spite the universe.  
  
The message is from your aunt Marjorie, telling you that she's in prison and she needs you to get her out. The bail is set at four corn stalks and a black dwarf star.  
  
The letter crumbles in your fist. You say, overwrought, plaintive: " _Why_? I didn't need this."  
  
The flowers die and bloom again. _Somebody did :)_ , they say. You crush the smiley face under the heel of your boot. Dozens more pop up with increasingly aggressive cheer.  
  
_:) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)_ _,_ they say, and once, infuriatingly, _;)_ _._  
  
"Help me," a voice calls, yearning, from deep within the woods. "Please, please... I need you, won't you come?" it sounds wounded. It sounds wanting. It sounds like someone you love.  
  
"Oh, shut up," you say, grumbling, and stomp down another patch of smiley faces.


End file.
